Briana

In the courtyard, the horses were saddled and ready. Mother Superior handed Briana a coarse, hooded traveling robe. “The ermine-lined cloak which you wore here was given to the poor. As was the purse of gold which your father sent. But though this is a humble replacement, it will serve its purpose, Briana, and keep you warm throughout your long journey.”

“I care not for clothes, Reverend Mother.”

“I know that, child.” It was one of Briana’s most endearing qualities. The lass had no artifice. And though she was an incorrigible rascal, she was much loved by all at the convent.

It had been plain, from her first day, that she would never fit in to the life of a humble sister. But it was also plain that she was kind, and dear, and with her impulsive behavior and irrepressible humor, the most impossible challenge of Mother Superior’s life. As she looked at Briana now, she wondered just how she would fit into that other world beyond the convent walls. She’d had no time to flirt, to dance, to experience the things of young womanhood. By now, the women Briana’s age would be wives and mothers. And though this sweet lass would be treated like a woman by those who met her, she was still, in her heart, that naive girl of ten and five who had burst upon their silence and order, bringing with her chaos and passion.

The older woman lifted a hand and Briana bowed her head. “Until we meet again, child, may God hold you safely in His hands.”

“And you, Reverend Mother.” Briana turned away and was assisted onto her mount.

With a clatter of hooves, the horses moved out.

Briana turned for a last glimpse of the Abbey of St. Claire. Mother Superior stood, her hands folded as always inside the sleeves of her robes. Behind her the roof of the building, and the cross that rose from the highest peak, were still cloaked in darkness.

Briana turned her head and stared straight ahead. Toward the sunrise, just beginning to tint the sky. There lay Ballinarin. Her heart fluttered with unrestrained happiness. At long last, she was going home.

“What is it? Why are we stopping here?” When the leader of their little group signalled a halt, Briana urged her mount forward.

“A village, my lady.” From his position at the top of a small green hill, the lad pointed. In the distance could be seen the thatched roofs of sod huts, and the smoke from turf fires, and beyond them, the towers and turrets of the distant keep. “We’d be wise to seek shelter before it grows dark.”

“I’m not yet weary. I could continue for a few more hours.” For every hour would bring her closer to home.

“You have been away now for several years, my lady.” He kept his tone respectful, but Briana felt the sting of censure. “There are many more English soldiers in our land now. And no one, man or woman, is safe after dark.”

It was on the tip of Briana’s tongue to remind the lad that she was an O’Neil, and that the decision should be hers and hers alone. But though it stung, she knew he was right. She had been sheltered so long, she had no way of making a proper judgment. The lad was only looking out for her safety.

Reluctantly she nodded. “Aye. We’ll seek the shelter of a tavern then, and be on our way again in the morning.”

Below them lay a field of green. Peasants from a nearby village could be seen tending their flocks. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene that brought a smile to Briana’s lips as she and her escorts urged their horses down the hill. This was what she had missed. Laughter, as clear and tinkling as a bell, carried on the breeze. The sound of voices raised in easy conversation. How long had it been since she had heard such things? Even in the fields, the sisters and novices never broke their vow of silence.

As her horse moved in a slow, loping gait between the furrows, she lifted a hand and waved, and the men and women straightened and returned her salute.

She was halfway across the field when she heard the thunder of hooves. For a moment she didn’t know what to make of it. Then, seeing the lad in front of her turn and mutter an oath as he unsheathed his sword, she followed his gaze.

An army of English soldiers, perhaps fifty or more, was heading directly toward them from a nearby forest.

With a feeling of dread Briana looked around. They were caught in the open. Trapped. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to seek shelter from the trained warriors bearing down on them.

The leader of her escorts, a fierce, muscular lad of perhaps ten and six, shouted orders. “The village. At once. It is our only hope.”

As they urged their horses into a run, Briana glanced over her shoulder. The peasants, caught offguard, were being cut down by the invading soldiers’ swords. In the blink of an eye, five, then ten, then more, were seen falling to the ground, screaming in anguish.

The air was filled with the sound of voices shouting, swearing. Women weeping. The sharp clang of metal on metal as those few peasants who were armed strove to defend themselves. Horses whinnied in pain as they died, crushing their riders. That only made the soldiers more determined to retaliate against those peasants who dared to fight back.

The once tidy rows of grain were now slashed and torn, the earth red with blood as the mounted soldiers overtook the fleeing peasants and, in a frenzy of killing, left not a single one standing.

When they had finished with the peasants, the soldiers turned their attention on the five horsemen, fleeing across the fields. Within minutes they fanned out, determined to cut off any chance of escape.

Seeing that there was no hope of making it to the safety of the village, the leader of Briana’s escorts signalled for the others to form a circle around her. “Come lads. We must defend the lady Briana with our lives.”

“Give me a sword,” she shouted.

But her voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the shouts and jeers of the approaching army. As soon as Briana and her escorts slid from their saddles, their terrified horses took off at a run. The lads formed a ring around her, swords at the ready, determined to defend her to their last breath, as the soldiers bore down on them.

“Halsey.” A soldier’s shout had the leader of the army turning in the saddle. “Look at this. These lads are spoiling for a fight.”

“Then, let’s give them what they want.” The one called Halsey threw back his head and roared. It was obvious that he was enjoying the killing. “I’ll do the honors myself. The rest of you can see that the sniveling cowards don’t escape.”

His soldiers held back, allowing him to lead the charge. He singled out the leader of the band of defenders, plunging his sword through the lad’s heart with a single swipe.

His voice rang with disdain as the lad fell to the ground, writhing in pain. “Embrace death, Irishman. And may your sons and their sons join you in it.”

At his words the other soldiers began to laugh. When the remaining lads formed a tighter circle around Briana, several of the soldiers slid to the ground and drew their swords.

“Jamie,” Halsey called to a comrade. “Throw me your weapon. Mine’s buried too deeply in the Irishman.”

The soldier tossed his sword, and Halsey easily caught it before engaging a second lad in battle.

Briana watched with sinking heart as the lad fought bravely. But each time he managed to dodge a thrust from Halsey’s sword, the soldiers behind him would strike him about the head and chest with their weapons, leaving him dazed and bloody. Soon, seeing that the lad was too weary to defend himself, Halsey gave a final death thrust with his sword, sending the lad to the ground, where he gasped his last.

“That leaves only three,” Halsey said with an evil grin. “Who would care to test his skill next?”

The last of Briana’s defenders stood back to back, keeping her between them. With drawn swords, they fought with courage and skill, though they knew they had no chance to win. Even if they were to best the one called Halsey, his soldiers outnumbered them by fifty or more. His death would make their own that much more painful. Still, they had sworn to see the lady Briana safely to her home. No matter what the odds, they would fight to the death to keep their word to the lord of the manor.

“Do you think two Irishmen can outfight one English soldier?” Halsey’s voice rang with contempt. “Not even a dozen could best me.”

As if to prove his boast, he cut down the first lad with a single thrust, then turned his attention to the second. Though the lad was clumsy, he was tall and strapping, with muscular forearms. His first blow with the blade caught Halsey by surprise, and the soldier had to leap aside quickly to avoid being wounded.

Annoyed that his soldiers’ taunts had gone suddenly silent, he slashed out, catching the lad’s arm, laying it open. With blood streaming down his arm, the lad fought back, but was quickly slashed a second time, and then a third, until his tunic and breeches were stained with his own blood.

“Come, Irishman. Is this the best you can do?” Halsey leapt forward, causing the lad to back up too quickly.

He tripped and landed on his back. Like a feral dog, Halsey stood over him, the tip of his sword at the lad’s throat.

“You’d best pray that the God you worship is merciful, Irishman. For you’re about to meet Him.” With a laugh he plunged his sword through the lad’s throat. Then, for good measure, he pulled the blade free and thrust it again, directly through the lad’s heart.

His men sent up a cheer as he turned toward Briana, who stood alone.

If her years in the convent had taught her anything, it was that death was not to be feared, but rather to be embraced. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, prepared for what was to come.

“So, lad.” Halsey glanced around at his men, clearly enjoying his role as fearless enforcer. “I see you’re too young to be entrusted with a sword. Is this why the others were protecting you?”

Briana blinked. It took her several moments to realize that this man and the others mistook her for a lad. No wonder. In the coarse robes of a peasant, with her hair shorn, she would never be mistaken for a noblewoman.

“It’s too bad.” Halsey took a step closer, his sword raised for the kill. “I would have enjoyed a bit of a challenge before retiring for the night with my men. Ah well. I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

As he stepped over the body of his last victim, Briana took that moment of distraction to bend toward the lad lying at her feet. In one swift motion she pulled the sword from his chest.

She cursed the fact that it had been too many years since she’d handled a weapon. She was surprised at how heavy it felt. It took both hands just to hold it aloft.

Halsey looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, seeing how she struggled with the heavy weapon, his lips split into a grin.

“That’s my sword you’re holding, lad. I’d wager it doesn’t like being held by Irish hands. Be careful the hilt doesn’t burn your flesh.”

The others roared with laughter.

“Maybe you’re the one who should be careful.” Briana slowly lowered one hand, flexing her fingers. Though she hadn’t held a sword these last three years, she had held her share of plowshares and scythes. Her work with the flocks and in the fields may have whittled her weight, making her lean, but it had also made her strong. She tightened her grip on the hilt of the sword and tested its strength.

Halsey’s smile grew. “You Irish always have so much to say until you taste an English sword. Then your babbling turns to the bleating of lambs at slaughter. Prepare yourself, lad. You’re about to face your own slaughter.”

He stepped forward, giving a deft jab with his sword tip. To his surprise his opponent danced to one side and caught his arm with a sharp slice. The yelp that bubbled to his lips was quickly turned into a string of oaths, in order to save face in front of his watching men.

“The Irishman must pay for that, Halsey,” one of his soldiers called.

“Aye.” Gritting his teeth, Halsey charged forward, determined to inflict pain.

Instead, his opponent once more managed to avoid his sword and swung out, catching his shoulder with a sword tip.

As blood spilled down the front of his tunic, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Gone was the sly smile of a moment ago. Now, this was no longer sport. It had become deadly serious.

“I tire of this game, Irishman.” He signalled to two of his soldiers. “Hold the lad while I teach him a lesson.”

Briana turned to face the two men who advanced. Wielding the sword like a club, she swung out viciously, and had the satisfaction of seeing them back away rather than face her weapon. But, with her back to Halsey, she was defenseless. She felt the white-hot thrust of a sword as it pierced her shoulder. The weapon dropped from her fingers and fell to the ground.

Stunned and reeling, she turned to face her attacker. His smile was back. His eyes were glazed with a lust for blood.

Up close she could see that his face bore the scars of many battles. His nose had been broken. His left ear had been cut away, leaving only a raw, puckered scar.

“Now will you know death, Irishman.” His voice was a low taunt. “Not only your own, but the death of this land, as well. For all of it, and all who live in it, will answer to an English sword.”

“Hold him,” he shouted to his soldiers. “And this time, see that he doesn’t break free.”

With one soldier on either side of her, holding firmly to her arms, Briana was unable to move. She kept her eyes open as the one called Halsey drew back his hand and brought the sword forward with one powerful thrust. When the blade entered her chest she felt nothing at first, as her legs failed her and sent her crashing to the ground. And then there was pain, hotter than any fire, burning her flesh, melting her bones. Pain that seemed to go on and on until she could no longer bear it.

A loud roaring, like thunder, filled her head.

Then, from far away, came the sound of laughter. And Halsey’s voice, that seemed to rise and fall. “Come. Let’s find a tavern, and wash away the taste of these filthy Irish.”

And then, mercifully, there was only numbness. And a deep black hole that swirled and swirled, stealing her sight, her mind, enveloping her in total darkness, as it slowly closed around her and took her down to the depths of hell.

Chapter Two

“Bloody barbarians.” The old man from the nearby village knelt beside the body of his brother, cradling the familiar head in his lap.

“Aye.” His son nodded toward the lord of the manor, who had brought a wagonload of servants to survey the carnage. “And there’s another one of them.”

“Aye. Bloody Englishman. A pity, what he’s become. I knew his grandfather. Now there was a true and loyal son of Ireland.”

“You can’t say the same for his father.”

“Nay. A wastrel, true enough. And now his son has returned as a titled gentleman. The only reason he came home was to claim his inheritance. With his father dead, he’ll take the fruits of our labors back to England, to live as his father before him, like royalty.”

“The bloody English will soon enough own all the land and everyone on it.”

Though Keane O’Mara couldn’t help but overhear the mutterings of the villagers, he gave no indication as he moved among the dead. On his face was a look of complete disdain. It was the only expression the villagers had seen since his recent return to his childhood home.

When he came upon a body that had not been claimed, he paused.

“How many, Vinson?” he asked his servant.

The old man hobbled closer. “I’ve counted a score and ten, my lord.”

Keane struggled to show no emotion. Thirty men, women, even a few children. All caught by surprise, apparently, while tending the fields. With nothing more than a handful of weapons among them with which to defend themselves.

He’d come upon this sort of thing so many times lately, he’d begun to lose count of the bodies. The bloody scenes of carnage had begun to blur together in his mind, so that they all seemed one and the same. And yet, each was different. Each time, he was reminded of the families who would grieve. The widows who would never again see their husbands. The orphans who would grow up without knowing their parents. He winced. The parents who would carry the loss of their children in their hearts forever.

“Has Father Murphy finished the last rites?”

The old man nodded.

“Order the servants to begin loading them into wagons for burial.”

“Aye, my lord.” Vinson shuffled off, and soon a staff of servants began the terrible task of lifting the bloody, bloated bodies onto carts and wagons for burial in the field behind the chapel, on the grounds of the family keep.

Many of the villagers had brought their own carts, and they now trailed behind in silence, unable to give voice to their grief. Only the anguish in their eyes spoke of their pain and sorrow.

As Keane approached yet another bloody section of field, his servant looked up. “These five were not of the village, my lord.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye, my lord. Neither the priest nor the villagers has ever seen them before. They must have been strangers, who were just passing through.”

“A pity they chose this time.” Keane turned away. “Before you bury them, examine their cloaks and weapons. Perhaps you’ll find a missive or a crest that will tell us the name of their village.”

He hadn’t take more than a dozen steps when the elderly servant called excitedly, “One of these lads is alive, my lord.”

Keane returned and stared down at the figure, crusted with mud and dried blood, the face half hidden in the folds of a twisted hood.

“You’re certain?”

“Aye, my lord.” Vinson leaned close, feeling the merest puff of warmth from between lips that were parched and bloody. “There’s breath in him yet.”

“From the looks of him, he put up a bit of a fight. Take him to my keep and see to him, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man got to his feet. “Though his heartbeat’s so feeble, he might not survive the trek.”

Keane gave a sigh of disgust. So many wasted young lives. “All we can do is try. And hope he survives.”

A servant approached, leading the lord’s stallion. Keane pulled himself into the saddle and began the long sad journey to the chapel, where he would try to give what comfort he could to the grieving villagers. If he were his grandfather the villagers would accept what he offered. But because he was viewed as an outsider, his attempts would be rebuffed.

All along the way he prepared himself for the storm of anger and grief and bitterness that would be expressed. There was a groundswell of hatred festering, and for good reason. There would come a time, he knew, when it would spill over into war. And when it did, there would be even more death and destruction. For the English would never give up their hold on this land and its people. And though he understood the need for vengeance, he also knew the futility of it. Despite the growing tide of sentiment against the English, this small, poor land was no match for England’s armies.

Hadn’t he learned the lesson well enough? And hadn’t he already paid the supreme sacrifice for his devotion to the wrong cause?

The thought of his loss brought an ache so deep, so painful, it nearly cut off his breath.

Aye. He’d paid. And he’d learned. But that didn’t mean he’d given up hope. It just meant he’d mastered the art of patience. For a while longer he would bide his time and get his father’s affairs in order. And then he would leave this sad land, with its sad memories, and try to make a life somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he would no longer have to remember the past with all its bitterness.

“Good even, my lord. Mistress Malloy has kept a meal on the fire for you.”

Keane shrugged out of his heavy cloak and shook the rain from his hair. “I’ve no appetite, Vinson. Bring me a tankard.” He started toward the stairs, favoring his left leg. He only gave in to the pain when he was too tired to fight it. At the moment, he was on the verge of exhaustion. “I’ll be in my chambers.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old servant cleared his throat and Keane paused, knowing there was something important Vinson needed to say. It was always the same. When the old man needed to speak, he first had to clear his throat and prepare himself for the task.

“Perhaps, my lord, you could step into the chambers next to yours on your way.”

Keane gave a sigh of impatience. The events of the day had dragged him to the depths, and all he wanted was to wash away the bitter taste with ale. “I’m sure there’s a good reason?”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man carefully hung the damp cloak on a hook, then picked up a tray on which rested a decanter and a silver tankard. He climbed the stairs behind his master.

At the upper hallway Keane gave a fleeting glance at the door to his chambers, then resolutely moved past it to tear open a second door. Inside a serving wench looked up from the figure in the bed, then stepped aside to make room for the master.

“Ah. The lad.” Keane walked to the bedside. “With all that transpired this day, I’d nearly forgotten about him. I see he survived, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. But…” Vinson cleared his throat again.

Keane waited, a little less patiently.

“The lad isn’t. A lad, I mean. He’s a…lass, my lord.”

Keane turned. The old man was actually blushing. Carrick House had been, after all, a male bastion for a quarter of a century. Except for the serving wenches, and a housekeeper who had been in residence since Keane’s father was a lad, there had been no females under this roof.

“I’d managed to wash away most of the mud and blood from his…her face. But when I cut away his…her cloak, I…” Vinson swallowed. “I summoned young Cora to see to her.”

Keane took a closer look at the figure in the bed. Several thicknesses of bed linens hid the shape of her body, but he could recall no hint of womanly curves beneath the shapeless robes she’d been wearing on the field of battle. Now that the face was washed, it was obvious that the features were decidedly feminine. A small, upturned nose. High cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips. The hair had been cut so close to the head, it was little more than a cap of tight red curls.

“A natural enough mistake. What do you make of it, Vinson?”

“Cora found this around the lass’s neck.” The old man held up a small cross, tied to a simple cord. “A nun, I’d say.”

Keane nodded as understanding flooded his tired mind. “Aye. Of course. That would explain the simple garb and shorn hair. But what of the lads with her?”

The old servant shrugged. “I haven’t fathomed that, my lord. We can only hope that the lass will live long enough to tell us.”

“How does she fare?”

The old man and the young servant exchanged glances. “The wounds are extreme. The one to the shoulder is festering. The one to the chest left her barely clinging to life. The sword passed clear through, missing her heart. She hovers between this world and the next. If her heart and her will to live are strong enough…” The old man shrugged. “The next day or two will tell the tale.”

Keane nodded, then turned toward the door. “You’ll wake me if she grows weaker.”

“Aye, my lord.” The serving wench returned to her bedside vigil, while Keane and Vinson took their leave.

In his chambers, Keane strode to the fireplace and stared into the flames.

Vinson filled a tankard and handed it to him. “Will I fetch you some food now, my lord?”

Keane shook his head. “Nay. The morrow will be soon enough. Take your rest, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man seemed eager to escape to his bed. Nearly disrobing a young female had left him badly shaken.

When he was gone, Keane drained the tankard in one long swallow. Then, after prying off his boots and removing his tunic, he refilled the tankard and drank more slowly, all the while staring into the flames.